


Slow Song

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Bar, Dancing, Flirting, Jukebox, M/M, Post-Canon, Summer of Zechs, cocktails, june 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 19:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11168868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: After the wars, Zechs is sent around to inspect Preventers sectional HQs.For Summer of Zechs, June 11: Post-Canon





	Slow Song

June 11: Post-Canon.

 

 

A/N: Always, always thank you Ro. You are the best Beta I could ever dream of having.

Warnings: language

Pairings: 6x2

 

 

Of all the Preventers Headquarters Zechs had toured in the last nine months at Director Une’s insistence, Zechs thought the San Francisco branch was his favorite. Not so much the HQ itself, which was as architecturally bland as the one in Brussels or the newly refurbished L2 HQ that still smelled like the antiseptic used by the HAZMAT containment unit after the biological terrorist attack two months ago.

As bland as the HQ itself was, the bar that was situated only two blocks away was, in Zechs’s tragically extensive research, the most appealing of all the HQ watering holes in the Earthsphere. It was a little pricey, but that was to be expected considering the location - and the Preventers discount meant that it wasn’t bad at all - and it was clean, with a unique decor that called back to a time when there had been a United States of America and automobiles that were as big as launch capsules.

It was, Zechs decided as he settled in on a stool at the bar so shiny he still hadn’t been able to determine what the material was even after three nights of mildly intoxicated examination, the best part of the time he had already spent in San Francisco.

He held up the index finger of his right hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

The man, dark skinned and bald, with a trim body and powerful arms, smirked at Zechs and approached slowly.

There was heat in the man’s gaze, and Zechs had to smirk back.

In addition to appreciating the bar, Zechs had gained a very  _ thorough _ appreciation of the bartender on his first night in town. He felt fairly sure that the bartender,  _ Adrien _ \- he had groaned out his name while Zechs teased the shell of his pierced left ear - felt a mutual appreciation.

“The usual?” he asked, already reaching for a rocks glass.

Zechs nodded. 

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” the bartender assured him, and Zechs felt his lips twitch in amusement.

He watched as his drink was prepared. It had been the special, his first night in town. A Negroni. Adrien had told him some fanciful story of an Italian count when he had made it the first time, had filled Zechs in on Preventers gossip the second night, but tonight, it seemed, his attention was drawn elsewhere.

Zechs looked away from Adrien’s absentminded but no less meticulous preparation and followed his gaze across the bar.

Two Preventers agents were standing at the old-fashioned jukebox. Zechs had seen both around HQ, but he only actually knew one of them - Duo Maxwell.

The eight years since the end of the war had, according to rumor, kept Maxwell bouncing from one borderline crisis to another. He was one of Une’s most trusted agents, apparently single-handedly salvaging disasters and preventing massive loss of civilian life on more occasions than anyone cared to count. Those eight years had also, it seemed, given him the chance to eat decently, work out, and find a barber.

His hair wasn’t short, but Zechs remembered it being down to his thighs even when braided before - now Maxwell just wore his hair pulled back in a tail at the nape of his neck, the ends curling around the center of his back. 

It was a good look for him - hell, Zechs had to admit as he looked over the lean form of the man who had been a former enemy, anything would probably be a good look on him.

Especially when he was smirking like he currently was, lopsided, with just a hint of danger in his eyes.

The man Maxwell was with, another agent who Zechs remembered seeing in the absolutely forgettable mess hall just yesterday, was handsome in a monotonous kind of way.

“He’s gonna blow it,” Adrien said.

Zechs turned away from the two men and looked back at the bartender.

He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Maxwell’s been after Jackson for like… a month now. It’s pathetic.”

Zechs frowned, but turned back to look at the two men again.

He could see it now, the way Maxwell was angled towards Jackson, the way his eyes kept flickering down to his mouth when the other man spoke.

But Jackson… seemed completely oblivious to Maxwell’s interest. Jackson was intently focused on the jukebox, and when Maxwell reached out to tap a button on the machine, Jackson shifted his own hand away.

Zechs winced.

“Ouch,” Adrien muttered as he slid Zechs’s drink towards him on the bar.

Zechs picked it up, taking a sip and sighing int pleasure. It was good, and it was one of the many unexpected discoveries that he appreciated from this visit.

Maxwell still didn’t seem to be giving up.

He gestured towards the small dance area in the bar, dangerously situated next to the dart boards.

Jackson looked over his shoulder at the empty patch of floor, and then back at Maxwell with a confused scowl.

Zechs watched as the man’s face transformed with understanding.

He had no idea what Jackson said, but it looked awkward, and the hand gestures he was using couldn’t have been helping. 

Maxwell, and hell,  _ anyone _ watching, could still pick up on the clear  _ no _ that Jackson was stumbling through.

The former terrorist saved Jackson from himself, holding up a hand to stop the stream of words and the fluttering hand movements. His smirk was kind, rueful, and the shrug of his shoulders and the pat on Jackson’s back made it clear he was accepting Jackson’s lack of interest with grace.

Jackson sagged in relief as Maxwell walked away.

He headed straight for the bar, and Zechs didn’t bother to turn or hide the fact that he had been watching the scene play out.

Maxwell arched an eyebrow at him, but didn’t say anything as he settled onto the barstool beside Zechs.

“I told you,” Adrien greeted the other man as he slid a dark, sweating bottle of beer into Duo’s waiting grasp.

“Yeah, well, join the club,” Maxwell muttered, before bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a long swallow.

Zechs found the line of Maxwell’s throat rather fascinating, and he let his gaze trail from the expanse of pale flesh to Maxwell’s lips, wrapped around the bottle, and allowed himself to appreciate the view.

Maxwell set the bottle down on the counter with a thud and turned to glare at Zechs.

“Do I have something on my face or what?” he demanded.

Zechs frowned.

“What?”

“You’ve been staring at me - ever since you sat down.”

Zechs hadn’t realized Maxwell had been aware of what was going on beyond the scope of his bland failed conquest.

“There’s very little entertainment,” Zechs shrugged, and took a sip of his own drink.

Maxwell looked like he was debating whether or not to take offense at that statement.

“If you’re looking for entertainment, there are plenty of bars that offer it,” Maxwell finally muttered.

Zechs watched the other man pick at the label on his beer bottle.

He was, Zechs realized, genuinely disappointed that Jackson had turned him down.

“What did you even see in him?” Zechs had to ask.

“Huh?” Maxwell turned a frown in his direction.

“Agent Jackson - why were you interested in him in the first place? I’ve never seen such a… boring-looking person before.”

Maxwell snorted.

“Not everyone can be as  _ interesting _ or gorgeous as you, Your Worshipfullness. And Tom is a great guy - he’s smart and funny and-”

“Boring,” Zechs said again. He knew Maxwell had meant the title as an insult, but there hadn’t been much edge to his tone when he said it.

Maxwell rolled his eyes.

“You know, there’s more to life than excitement and danger.”

Zechs arched an eyebrow and looked Maxwell over from head to foot.

“Yeah, okay - I’m just saying - not everyone gets their rocks off the way we do.”

And  _ that _ had Zechs considering Maxwell in a new way.

Because he was right. Maxwell and Zechs had a fair amount in common, one of the many things being a thrill for  _ excitement and danger _ .

“He didn’t even realize you were interested in him until you asked him to dance,” Zechs mused. “I know that stealth is your MO, but there are  _ some _ battles that require a more direct approach.”

Maxwell chuckled, shook his head and took another sip of beer.

“Sorry, I missed out on all the ‘how to pick up guys’ lessons you got at finishing school,” Maxwell muttered after he swallowed.

Zechs bit back the retort he wanted to offer regarding Maxwell’s upbringing and simply smirked.

“Experience has certainly added to my natural finesse,” he said instead, and Maxwell snorted again.

“Jesus, you might have mellowed into a decent human being but your ego could survive a supernova, couldn’t it?”

Zechs took another sip of his own drink, shrugging off Maxwell’s words because he didn’t want to acknowledge the truth in them.

“How would you do it, then?” Maxwell demanded, turning on his barstool to face Zechs. “What’s your magic pick-up method?”

Zechs smirked and set his glass down on the bar.

He looked at Maxwell, letting his gaze linger on the other man’s lips, damp from the beer and bottle condensation and slightly parted.

“I’m not sure you could handle my  _ magic  _ pick-up method,” he drawled.

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed, and Zechs turned to face him, letting his right knee nudge along the inseam of Maxwell’s trousers as he settled his foot on the lowest rung of Maxwell’s bar stool.

Maxwell followed the move with his eyes, his breath catching at the contact, and his eyes flying up to Zechs’s face even as his cheeks colored the slightest bit.

“I read your last mission debriefing,” Zechs said.

Maxwell’s eyebrows drew together as he tried to figure out the connection between Zechs’s actions and his words.

“I- What?”

“The L2 debacle.”

Maxwell glowered.

“I know what my last mission was.”

Maxwell’s anger was obvious, coloring his words and straightening his spine even as his eyes darkened.

Zechs could hardly blame him - hell, when Zechs had read the debriefing  _ he _ had been furious, not just on Maxwell’s behalf but for the two dozen Preventers agents and seven civilians who had died.

Maxwell had been sent to L2 three months ago to investigate a growing terrorist threat in the region. He had turned over his findings to the L2 Preventers Section Chief, including a rather lengthy and detailed list of precautions that the L2 agents should be taking and an advisement to immediately reinforce security procedures and call for reinforcements so that the terrorist group could be dealt with immediately. The Section Chief, Julio Graves, a former Alliance officer and now one of the many agents whose bodies had been left a putrefying mess, had written Maxwell off as an alarmist and inexperienced agent. He had ignored Maxwell’s advice and his intel, and had instead insisted on waiting, hoping to catch the terrorist group in the act of something big, hoping to capture a moment of glory that would allow him to finally put his past record behind him and bask in fame.

Maxwell had had a shouting match with the Section Chief, in the L2 HQ mess hall, and had been sent back to San Francisco and put on administrative leave by Une.

One week later, the terrorist group had struck the L2 HQ, unleashing a biotoxin that had been devastating, leaving almost thirty people dead.

Maxwell and a team of seven other agents had been dispatched to deal with the aftermath, and in his debriefing, Maxwell had been frank about not only the wreckage of the L2 HQ, but had offered up gruesome details of his own actions when he led his team in the apprehension of the terrorist group, an organization of sixteen individuals, only one of whom made it to an interrogation room alive.

For the last two months, Maxwell had been riding a desk while Une figured out what the hell to do with him. In addition to Zechs’s administrative task of inspecting the HQ and reporting back to Une regarding the general morale and readiness of the agents there, Une had told him to figure out just how close to the edge Maxwell was.

“Jackson was on your go-team, wasn’t he?”

Maxwell nodded and took another sip of his beer.

He offered Zechs a wry, bitter smirk.

“Good point - shoulda guessed he wouldn’t be interested in me. Not after that.”

It did, however, explain why Maxwell was interested in  _ him _ , at least to Zechs. Jackson had been there, had seen not only the destruction at the HQ but Maxwell’s swift and terrible vengeance. His own debriefing had been much more circumspect than Maxwell’s. All of the other agents had been very sparse with details in their debriefings, and Zechs wasn’t sure if that was to protect Maxwell or themselves.

Maxwell frowned.

“Is that why you’re here?”

Zechs arched an eyebrow and looked around the bar.

“Am I here because Jackson flinched in the face of Shinigami?”

Maxwell took a moment to consider those words, and Zechs hoped the other man realized it was as close as he could get to officially condoning Maxwell’s actions on L2.

“No,” Maxwell finally said. “Are you here because of… Hell, because of Shinigami, I guess?”

Zechs finished off his drink and set it down on the bar.

“Officially? I’m on my continuing inspection tour to rate Preventers HQ buildings’ complete lack of architectural ingenuity and vision. Unofficially, I’m compiling a guidebook of bars within walking distance of each HQ and rating those based on the quality of their libations,” Zechs gestured towards the bar, “outstanding in this case, and  _ entertainment _ ,” Zechs smirked at Maxwell, “which is surprisingly exactly to my tastes.”

Maxwell stared at him, and Zechs stood up and held out his hand.

“Shall we pick out a new song and see how the dance floor rates in my guidebook?”

Maxwell considered the hand, and then shrugged and stood as well.

“Just don’t play any of that old world electronica stuff,” Maxwell warned.

“Don’t expect me to pick any of that colonial waltz music either,” Zechs returned.

Maxwell smirked and slid his palm into Zechs’s grip. 

 

 

-o-

 


End file.
